I pocket the phone and force myself to move. I finish wiping tables, count the register, and box up the leftover donuts for the homeless shelter. Normal tasks. Normal routine.
Nothing feels normal.
By the time I lock up and walk to my car, it's past eight. The street is quiet. Most shops are dark. I drive home on autopilot, my mind somewhere else entirely.
Ethan's cabin is fifteen minutes outside town. I know because Luke told me once. Described the five acres and the garden and the quiet. Said it was exactly what Ethan needed after the military. After everything.
I'm halfway home when I realize I'm driving in the wrong direction.
Toward the highway. Toward the turnoff that leads to Ethan's place.
I should turn around. Should go home and sleep and let this go. He made his choice. He's leaving. Creating distance. Doing what he thinks is right.
I keep driving.
Luke would kill me if he knew. Would ask what the hell I'm thinking showing up at Ethan's cabin at night. He would see right through any excuse I tried to make.
Good thing Luke isn't here.
I find the turnoff Luke described. A dirt road cutting through trees. I follow it for a mile until I see a cabin set back from the road. Lights are on inside. Ethan's truck is in the driveway.
I park beside it and sit there with the engine running. This is stupid. This is the definition of stupid. He told me goodbye, and told me there can't be a this.
I turn off the engine and get out.
The porch steps creak under my feet. I knock before I can change my mind.
Footsteps inside. The door opens.
Ethan stands there in jeans and a t-shirt, hair damp like he just showered. His eyes widen when he sees me.
"Callie."
"I need to talk to you."
"We already talked."
"No. You talked. You said your piece and walked out. Now it's my turn."
He doesn't move, doesn't invite me in, just stands there blocking the doorway with his jaw tight and his shoulders tense.
"You shouldn't be here," he says.
"Probably not. But I am."
"Luke—"
"Isn't here. It's just us."
Something flickers across his face. Fear maybe. Or want. Hard to tell in the porch light.
"Please," I say quietly. "Just let me say what I came to say."
He steps back. Not an invitation exactly, but not a refusal either. I walk past him into the cabin.
It's smaller than I expected. One room that functions as kitchen and living area. A hallway leading to what I assume is a bedroom. Everything is neat and spare. No clutter. No personal touches beyond a few books on a shelf and a laptop on the table.
It feels like Ethan. Controlled and contained.
